


Caring

by boobooboo888



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-11
Updated: 2015-04-11
Packaged: 2018-03-22 10:32:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3725506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boobooboo888/pseuds/boobooboo888
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Peeta Mellark is injured, and the caring hands that heal his wounds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Caring

\---

I see her through the grey late-winter drizzle. She is almost as colorless as the rainwater. She stumbles through the mud and I see her tip towards the old apple tree, slide to the ground, and stay there. I’ve seen her fading away at school, each week becoming quieter and thinner, like smoke dissipating in the wind. Without fully thinking it through, I turn away from the window and thrust the fresh loaves in my hands into the fire.

My skin stings and screams. I pull the bread out of the flame and step back from the oven moments before my mother catches me. She swings at me and the pain from my burns slows my reaction time; the back of her hand cracks against my face. I glare at her as the burnt bread slips from my hand. I’m already scooping them off the floor and headed for the door when she swings again. She follows me, cursing loudly. I let her land one more blow, which seems to appease her for now. I wait until she’s fully back inside before tossing the bread, not to the pigs, as she instructs, but to Katniss’s feet, where she huddles beneath the tree.

She looks up in alarm, her eyes trying to locate me through the hazy rain. Our eyes meet, maybe for a minute, before she gathers the burnt loaves in her arms, pressing them to her chest and dipping her face towards the warmth. I don’t dare linger any longer, afraid to draw my mother’s attention. She has preached the evils of the Seam all my life, and Katniss Everdeen is the worst of them all.

That night I run my hands under the freezing water from the tap, willing it to draw the heat from the angry red blisters. I leave a wet rag on the frosty windowsill until it is cold, then press it gingerly to the bruise rising on my face. As I tend to my wounds, I stare out the window, still running with rain, and hope that my pathetic gift of ruined bread will be enough to get the Everdeens through one more night.

\---

I must be hallucinating Katniss’s voice. My dying brain is giving me one final gift, letting me believe that Katniss came in search of me, tracked me to this mudbank. "Here to finish me off, sweetheart?" I chuckle to myself; I am quite witty in death.

She gasps and pulls me from the slime. I flirt with her, try to get her to laugh with me. I just want us to laugh together in my last moments. I tell her that Cato slashed me with his sword, high up on my thigh. She guides me to the water, her arms around me, her fingers on my skin; it all feels so real. She flushes my wound with swirling water, and I hiss loudly; the pain is real too. 

She props me against a tree and washes me with water from the stream. Gradually, I emerge from the mud with each rinse. The water is cool against my burning skin. I can’t keep my eyes open. I feel hot like fire. I remember the flames on her dress. She is so beautiful. She is so kind to care for me, even if it’s all in my mind.

She removes my ruined, filthy clothes, washes my skin, my hair, my face. In my weakened state, there is nothing sensual about her attention. Her touch is feather-light, gentle and tender. She finds burns and stings on my skin, treats them with something that soothes the pain, and I sigh in relief.

I think she tries to feed me; it makes my stomach turn. She tries to tend to my leg, and I feel more sorry for her than I do for myself. I have been dealt my death wound, there’s no way to come back from this. Still, this delusion-induced Katniss is determined, and I am grateful. I focus on her face while she works, try to convince her that it’s okay, she doesn’t need to work so hard at a lost cause. My mind grows fuzzier, and I think maybe it is time to let go, time for sleep and sweet release. I close my eyes and lose myself in her touch.

I dream of her face, watching over me while I sleep. Perhaps this is what happens when you die, you finally get to be with the ones you love. I think this might be the time to tell her, and I try to, but she shushes me, first with her fingers, then with her lips. I sleep and am quiet, wrapped in the all-consuming fire of Katniss Everdeen.

I wake alone in a dark, quiet place. I am swaddled in a sleeping bag; I struggle to free myself. I see the rosy light of dawn spilling across the floor. _Cave_ , I think. _Katniss_ , I remember. I swivel around wildly, trying to find her. The movement makes me dizzy. I feel a slick sweat on my skin and I shiver in the chill morning air. Where am I? How am I not dead?

Katniss herself appears then, bringing me mashed berries to eat and water to drink. She pushes me back down into the sleeping bag, pushing back my hair and feeling my forehead. She coaxes food and drink into me, and I slowly realize that it’s real, it was all real. She found me, she saved me, she took care of me.

She looks ragged and tired, so I convince her to rest. She lies down reluctantly and falls asleep comically fast. I stroke her hair, alternate between watching the mouth of the cave and glancing down at her drawn face. As she sleeps, I marvel at the feeling of being taken care of, and having someone to care for in turn.

\---

I am not surprised that President Snow has assigned two teams to manage me. One team for torture, one for interview prep. The former doesn’t seem to have any restrictions on what they can do to me so long as the latter is not prevented from making me camera-ready. I recognize the tactic. My mother did her best to hurt without leaving marks. Marks invite questions, and questions become stories that scare away customers. 

After a while I realize that they know I don’t know any rebel secrets worth torturing for. This is about power and control. Obedience. Snow mentions this one day when he visits. "You only invite more pain when you display this kind of insolence," he tells me in the tone of a disappointed teacher.

I give a bark of laughter and fix bleary eyes on him. "You're spending a lot of resources on one insolent boy, don’t you think?"

Snow grins. "I’m confident that the return on investment will be more than satisfactory," he assures me. "You are much more valuable than you think you are, Mr. Mellark."

"I must be," I grunt. "I expected you to kill me long before now."

His grin deepens and he stands to leave. "All in due time, Mr. Mellark." He crosses the room, and as he passes the guards, says, "Continue."

Later, in my cell, I huddle in the corner and squeeze my eyes shut tight against stinging tears. I try to draw my legs up to my chest, but sharp pain prevents the motion. I lean back, the wall is all that is holding me upright. For all my bravado in Snow’s presence, I am miserable and broken and lonely. I ignore the throbbing in my shoulder, my broken ribs, the blood dripping from my leg. I allow myself a moment to miss Katniss, before reminding myself that I shouldn’t wish for her to be here. My only comfort is knowing that wherever she is, she is safer with the rebels than she would be in the Capitol. Nonetheless, as I drift to sleep, I remember her gentle hands tending to my wounds, her cool fingers on my skin. Fat tears leak from my eyes. I know I shouldn’t, but I wish I could see Katniss Everdeen once more before I die.

\---

I sit in a silent, white room, knees drawn against my chest and my arms looped around them to keep my leg from jittering. I stare out the window without seeing anything. Subconsciously, I run my fingers along the gouge in my hand, the teeth marks Katniss left when I stopped her from biting the nightlock pill on her shoulder. The scene flashes through my mind. Presidents Snow and Coin, dead on stage; Katniss, spontaneous assassin, taken into custody while spitting and snarling like a feral cat. And me, handcuffed and returned to a padded cell. I guess it’s been two weeks since I was brought here. Good information is hard to come by.

The door opens and a nurse enters. I whip around at the sound. She sets a dinner tray on the bedside table and consults her clipboard. "Where's Katniss?" I ask her. She ignores me, taps commands into the panel on the wall.

"Where is Katniss?" I ask again.

"She's gone," the nurse says simply, and I feel my heart drop out of my body. She can’t be dead. She can’t be.

"Gone?" I choke.

"She was released from custody. Sent back to District 12." My head swims in relief. Not dead.

Green mountains flash through my mind. I stand suddenly. "I want to go too." District 12. The mountains. The Village. Home.

She shakes her head. "You're staying here. Doctor’s orders."

I hiss in frustration. "For how long?" She shrugs and leaves.

They can’t keep me here forever. If I get better, if the doctor releases me, I can go home too. I pace around the room, end up near the window. I stare through the glass, wishing I could see 12's mountains from here, wondering if I’m even facing the right direction.

I run my fingers over the scab on my hand. Maybe it’s foolishness to try to return to the ruins of my home. I imagine this is what Dr. Aurelius will tell me. But my mind is made up. Katniss Everdeen has left her mark on me.

\---

The power is out, so we make the most of the evening. In spite of the reconstruction in the district, nothing is perfect, and electric service is still intermittent. I coax a fire, while Katniss lights candles and steps into the kitchen to brew tea. 

Outside the window, a fierce winter wind whips ribbons of snow through the air. The house is growing colder every minute, but we’ve gathered blankets and pillows around the hearth; we know how to keep warm.

I glance up when Katniss returns. "No tea?" I ask, looking back down at the fire.

"I thought we should make toast."

I answer distractedly. "Okay." I stare up at her an instant later when the full meaning hits me. She is holding a loaf of bread in her hands and gazing down at me with a bewitching smile. "Toast?" I echo weakly.

She nods and kneels next to me. Without sparing a moment to think, I take the bread from her hands and push it into the crackling fire. The flames have just begun to scald my skin when she reaches in and pulls hand and bread free.

"Peeta!" she scolds, but there’s laughter in her voice. She ghosts her fingers over the reddened skin. I watch the firelight play over her face; her eyelashes throw long shadows across her cheeks. "We should run this under cold water."

"In a minute," I tell her softly. I offer her the burnt bread. She concedes, reaches for a knife, and slices a piece just big enough for two. "I thought you hated winter," I murmur. "I'm surprised you didn’t want to wait until spring."

She shrugs, and smiles serenely. "Spring will be here soon enough. It always comes." She lifts the bread to my mouth, and I take a bite, letting the warmth fill me. I baked extra bread this morning, never guessing we would be toasting with it this evening. As I bring the bread to her lips, I think of the first time I fed her, the burnt loaves I threw into the rain. She chews slowly, eyes closed, and I wonder if she is remembering those first rain-soaked loaves too. She looks at me, eyes flickering in the firelight, and I lean forward to kiss her. She sighs contentedly, and I think my heart will burst with joy.

"Now will you let me take care of you?" she asks, tugging on my wrist.

And I tell her, "Always."

\---

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for #DreamScape Prompts in Panem, Day 2 (rats). Thank you to everyone who read and liked on tumblr! Speaking of which, if you would like to follow my fanfic tumblr: boobooboo888.tumblr.com. Thank you for reading! I hope your day is going well.


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